Handguns and Kitty Cats

I’m a young father, or at least I like to think of myself that way.  I have young kids, which instantly qualifies me for that title.  So, it amazes me to watch parents of older kids; those who are adjusting to the onset of the empty nest.

My next closest sibling is a brother who is ten years older than me.  His oldest girl is leaving for college this fall, and her younger sister is only a couple of years behind.  He and his wife have both led very busy lives over the previous years, but it seems like that may be winding down with their oldest out of high school.

How do I know, you might ask?  Well, the other day, he called me on the phone as I was heading home from work.  Come to find out, they had both just gone and got certified on handguns.  Concealed carry, I assume.

Now, I have nothing against carrying handguns.  If someone is going to do it, I prefer it be someone sane like my brother and his wife.  But I’ve got to tell you, if I had some free time come open, my first thought wouldn’t be going out, buying two expensive guns, paying for classes on how to use them, then keeping my conceal carry license up to date. 

That may be your thing, and if it is, I’m not knocking it.  Especially if you’re a crazy psycho, licensed to wield a hand cannon.  I’m just saying that I look at people who have all this free time on their hand, and I think to myself, “I would so use my free time better than them.”

Now, the truth is, by the time I get all this leisure time I’m dreaming of, I’ll squander it like nobody’s business.  But only time will tell.

Where do kitty cats fit into all this?  Well, my brother went on vacation with his family last week.  The day before they left, he called and asked if I would mind checking their mail and feeding their dogs and cat among some other things.  Being the stand-up guy that I am, I said, “Sure.”

So, the first day rolls around, and I stop by their house on the way home from work.  The cat sleeps and eats in the garage, which I leave slightly cracked at the bottom so that it can get in and out.  When I rolled up in the driveway, I immediately hit the garage door button, which causes the door to continue down to the close position, then I hit the button again to make it ascend.

The cat timed his exit perfectly, escaping from the garage confines before the door could slam shut on his tail.  “Lucky cat,” I thought to myself.

Day two.  I don’t really know what to say, except the cats timing was horribly off.  I had no intention of hurting him, but things happen.  The cat had made it halfway out from under the door, when the rolling barrier pinned him to the ground.  It all happened so quickly.  In a panic, his little legs were flailing about, trying desperately to wrench himself free from the door.  Just as desperately, I was in the truck mashing buttons as fast as I could.  I think this only made matters worse by confusing the garage door on what it was supposed to do next.

Eventually, I got it on an upward course and the cat escaped no worse for the wear.  I got out of the truck and went to apologize for what had happened, but the cat was having none of it.  I think it somehow knew that I was responsible for the terror it had just endured.  After feeding and getting fresh water for him, the cat forgave enough to let me check him over.

The only repercussion seems to be that he now has an unhealthy fear of the garage door.  You should have seen him light out around the house when I went to close it again. 

Some of you cat lovers are out there saying, “Oh, that’s so sad.”  You cat haters are probably saying, “I wish I could have seen that.”  Whichever camp you may find yourself in; I think we can all agree that the story takes a more serious bent when you realize the owner is packing heat.